


All Mine

by lamellae



Category: Dance Gavin Dance (Band)
Genre: Dom/sub, Jon is mean... sorry, M/M, RPF, lots of crying. sexy crying, petplay elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 21:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamellae/pseuds/lamellae
Summary: The vocalists get into an argument. Just read the tags.
Relationships: Jon Mess/Tilian Pearson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	All Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was so painfully self indulgent, that I almost feel bad for posting it... but whatever, enjoy, weirdos.

An argument had broken out backstage.

Equipment was still being cleared out of the front as frantic voices tinged with annoyance grew louder, thrown back and forth in retort after retort, before being silenced with a single question:

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jon’s voice was low and level, but its nigh-imperceptible shake belied a held aggression underneath. Stage staff saw the storm brewing in front of them and cleared out of the backstage. The rest of the band stopped and stared at Jon following his sudden, albeit quiet outburst.

The man himself was clearly exhausted, soaked in sweat with tired eyes after the performance, but he stood stark-straight in opposition to his fellow vocalist, the instigator for their current argument. Tilian looked down at him, likewise clearly physically spent, yet suddenly silenced, brows low, breathing heavy through his nose. His lips were drawn tight in a grimace. He opened his mouth to respond.

“I—”

Jon interrupted him, stepping closer. “Seriously, no—what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Tilian swallowed, exhaling. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “I was just _letting Matt know_, that he was off the click the whole fucking night, you don’t have to—”

“He sounded fine. We all sounded fine. What’s with this fucking attitude?” Jon crossed his arms, still staring Tilian right in the eyes. He heard a door close somewhere behind him. He hadn’t seen who had just left.

Tilian rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Loose strands fell freely over his forehead. “I just want to make sure we’re all doing the best we _can_, okay?” He let his voice rise a bit louder. “He should know when he’s fucking up.”

“You’ve been like this every fucking night this tour,” Jon raised his volume in response, stepping closer. He stuck out his hand and pushed lightly—and he hoped, playfully—at Tilian’s shoulder, causing the other man to tense up. “Always bitching and moaning at somebody, over some stupid bullshit—”

“It’s _not_ stupid bullshit. We need to put on good, no, perfect fucking shows otherwise we’re never gonna get anywhere,” louder still. “Why can’t you see that?”

“All _I _can fucking _see_,” Jon was definitely yelling now, pointing madly at the other man, not hearing fervent footsteps approaching. “Is you being a _bitch_ over your own _fucking_ ego, and—”

Will stepped between them, physically pressing them apart with widened hands. Jon stared up at Will, mouth agape; Tilian similarly eyed him in surprise, biting his lip in apparent shame.

“You assholes,” Will muttered, glaring interchangeably between the two vocalists, “need to either shut the fuck up or have this argument somewhere else.”

Tilian spoke up first, voice lowered. “But don’t you think I’m—”

“I don’t give a shit. We need to clean up,” Will gripped at the front of Tilian’s shirt for a brief moment before letting go, glancing back at Jon once more. “We can do it better without you two. Get the fuck out.”

Jon let out a breath, glancing back up at Tilian. “Fine. We need to talk.”

Tilian nodded, looking down at Jon once more, eyes wide in contained fury.

Will sighed, stepping back.

“Just don’t fucking beat each other to death. I don’t have the time or money to find two new vocalists before the show tomorrow,” he grumbled in strained sarcasm, turning. “Dipshits.”

Will left the two alone, leaving out a side door to retrieve their missing band members—now that Jon was aware, it was apparent that the rest of the group had left during his and Tilian’s altercation. Jon nervously pulled at the hem of his shirt, eyeing the door for a long moment after Will closed it. Tilian let out a short breath, pulling Jon’s eyes back up to the other man. Tilian glared back down at him. Jon could see a great deal of the whites of the other man’s eyes.

Jon rubbed at his own eyes with his palms.

“Let’s just talk, okay?”

Tilian stared at Jon in silence a bit longer before responding.

“Fine.”

Jon stepped to the far back wall of the staging area, opening a door into a narrow hallway. He heard the squeak of Tilian’s boots following just behind him. Jon headed down the gray and dusty hallway, away from where he knew the rest of the band and stage staff were. He decided that if they were going to descend into another screaming match, it shouldn’t be heard.

He knew better than to make Will—of all people—pissed.

Jon could feel Tilian’s glare burning a hole into his back. He glanced back to see the other man indeed staring at him still, walking briskly, hands shoved aggressively into his jean pockets. His mouth was pulled tight into another scowl.

Jon turned back to face the direction he was heading in. The hallway took a hook to the right, which he followed; the hallway lights ended just before the turn, giving the alcove a dastardly atmosphere. The lights buzzed faintly. A locked, greenish-gray metal door, presumably to some kind of electrical room, laid at the end of the turned corner. Jon stopped a foot away from the door, turning slowly. Tilian stood about a meter away, the dim hallway light from behind him hiding his face in shadow. His hands fidgeted in his pockets.

Jon cleared his throat.

“Listen, man,” Jon sighed, “I just don’t understand why you have to get so fucking pissed every time. What are they even doing that’s bothering you so bad?”

Jon couldn’t see Tilian’s expression in the shadow. The latter man shifted his stance slightly. Jon continued. He stepped closer to Tilian.

“You _know_ you don’t have the fucking place to be bitching at any of us,” Jon muttered. “But Tim and Matt especially have been here way longer than you, man. You keep trying to take control of this fucking band, and it’s pissing me, and all the other dudes off. It’s not your fucking place.”

Nothing upset Jon more than watching people try to fuck with his friends—well, like any normal person. And Matt and Will—the backbones of the band—were indeed his friends, and having Tilian try to wrestle control of the group away from them, made Jon see red.

Tilian opened his mouth to reply, paused, then sighed. Tilian was clearly struggling to find the words to explain his behavior.

“Like I said, dude, I’m trying to help—”

“What? No. You’re not fucking helping anybody.”

Tilian pulled his hands out of his pockets, holding them wide open. He shook his head.

“It’s fucking—it’s fucking constructive criticism.”

Jon grit his teeth.

“That’s not—telling Matt that he fucked up all night isn’t constructive, asshole. Neither is telling Andrew his playing was shit, or that Tim wasn’t trying hard enough. That’s just being a fucking asshole.”

“We’re adults. We don’t have to beat around the bush like fragile, special fucking _snowflakes_. He knows he did shit tonight. He needs to man the fuck up.”

Jon ran his hands through his hair, before crossing his arms. He squinted at Tilian’s face in the darkness. He was sure the other man was grinning smugly at his _snowflakes_ comment. Jon noticed that Tilian appeared to have stepped closer, at some point; he stood nearly two feet in front of Jon, now, and was starting to push into Jon’s own personal space.

Jon kept his voice low, and level in his response.

“You’re just being a dick. Calm the fuck down.”

“Fuck you. I’m just doing what’s best for the band. Sometimes you need a little tough love to get success.”

_Best for the band? How does he know what’s best for us?_

Jon shook his head in confusion, eyes wide. “Success? If you keep bitching at the guys, they’re only gonna hate you more. Hating your bandmates doesn’t seem like a recipe for _success_.”

Jon couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what had been eating at Tilian this tour. He was so much more agitated, so much more easily brought to arguments, than Jon could ever remember him being. He wondered, for a moment, if this was going to be Tilian’s big “rock star” mental breakdown.

“Listen, man, I just—just fucking leave me alone. We’re good, alright, but not great, and,” Tilian breathed in, gesticulating, “if we just work a _little harder_, we can be great, and letting in every little mistake as ‘no big deal’ won’t help that—”

“Tilian,” Jon interrupted. He furrowed his brows. “What the fuck are you even _doing_ this for?”

It’s not like Jon was going to blame Tilian for all their problems. They were all fucked up guys, they all needed some help sometimes. Jon knew he wasn’t easy to deal with, himself. He considered, at least for this moment, attempting to figure out what was bothering Tilian, and if he had the energy in him, even help. They weren’t exactly close friends, even with all the time they were around each other, but Jon wasn’t going to sit by and let Tilian suffer, if he could help it. Common human decency, and all that.

Tilian stared down at him silently.

Was it money problems? Drug problems? Family problems? Normal shit. Jon had been around enough to know that everybody had something. He didn’t know Tilian’s personal life all too closely, aside from the same atheistic bitterness Jon held, himself. He didn’t know his family, or what he did on his own. Tilian was a pretty secretive guy. At least, most of the time.

All Jon knew, was that he’d seen the band’s previous vocalists struggle with several… issues. Maybe this time, he thought, he could step in before it got as bad as them.

Jon couldn’t see it, but he knew Tilian had stopped breathing for a moment, before letting out a sigh.

“Nobody, man, it’s—it’s for _all of us_, you know—”

_Nobody? So it’s a person, right?_

“No, seriously,” Jon could feel his frustration coming out in his voice, getting a slight bit louder. “What, no, wait—_who_, are you so stressed to fucking impress? You’re in this band, you have all these fans, we’re doing fine… “

“It’s nobody, man,” Tilian said, a little too loud, his voice echoing off the walls of the small space. He lowered his volume, once more, seething. “Drop it.”

Jon could feel he was getting somewhere, taking Tilian’s irritation as a sign. The taller man wrapped his arms around himself, looking away in the dim light.

_Let’s get a little nasty._

“Tilian,” Jon egged, trying to keep down a grin. “Dude, I fucking know you’re not doing it for yourself. You fucking hate yourself.”

Tilian was clearly caught off guard. He sputtered. “Wh, what? Hey, that was uncalled for—”

Jon let a smug smile come fully to his face. “It’s true, though, right? I mean—c’mon bro, I don’t like myself either. I can see it in you.” And before Tilian could respond, Jon continued. “You don’t have your friends or family to impress. They don’t give a fuck. You’re a _star_.”

Jon stepped forward. Tilian slid to the adjacent wall, pressing his back to it, slowly stepping away from Jon, his eyebrows now raised in concern. He slid his hands back into his pockets, sinking into himself. He averted his gaze as Jon peered at him.

“Fuck off. I told you, it’s for all of us.”

Jon still doubted. If that was the truth, Tilian would’ve just walked away, right? No need to argue. Tilian, whether he knew it or not, wanted to tell Jon something.

_It’s probably something stupid… daddy issues, right?_

_No, that’s too obvious. Would’ve figured that out by now._

“Is it for a girl?”

In the light now, Jon could observe Tilian frowning more intensely than he’d ever seen before. Tilian tried shifting to his left, then his right. Jon knew he was close to a confession, close to figuring out how to help his bandmate. It may not have been the nicest method, but it was working for Jon. He had to keep Tilian here until he cracked. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of Tilian, blocking him in. Tilian froze.

Jon smiled, leaning forward. “Silent treatment? C’mon Tilian. Man the fuck up.”

A tinge of red came to Tilian’s face, which he quickly scrambled to cover with his hands. Jon felt his stomach turn.

_What kind of response is that?_

Tilian mumbled something behind his hands.

“What was that?” Jon let his smile fall.

Tilian mumbled again.

_He’s acting really weird._

_It’s just me._

_Oh._

_Fuck._

_What if…_

Jon smirked. “Is it for a bo—”

He stopped himself, catching Tilian’s eyes peeking out from behind his fingers: wide, and piercing.

Jon grinned, feeling a nervousness rise within him. His stomach did another flip. He was now confused at himself, and his response to this, but continued.

“A boy?”

Tilian uncovered his mouth just enough to be audible.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Jon brought himself closer to Tilian’s face. He could see Tilian’s hands shaking. His face was a deep red.

Jon’s confusion only deepened.

Why was he suddenly so embarrassed?

The confrontation, the contact, the close proximity, it all—

_Oh, shit_.

Jon had figured it out. His heart was pounding in his chest, for some reason.

“Who is it?”

“Go the fuck _away_, Jon.”

Tilian sounded like he was about to cry. Jon felt a strange energy rise up inside him at the noise. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he then grabbed at Tilian’s wrists, pulling them away from the latter man’s face with ease. He held his wrists to the wall, above Tilian. Tilian’s face was a bright red, tears welling up in his eyes. He bit his lip, averting Jon’s gaze.

Jon couldn’t keep his eyes off the other man. He looked like he was about to crumble.

“Who is it, Tilian?”

Silence. Jon glanced down to see Tilian’s legs were shaking, too. Tilian weakly tried to push against Jon’s hands, but couldn’t free himself. Jon continued, sing-song.

“I think I know.”

“Sh, shut up,” Tilian mumbled, quietly.

Jon had the sudden urge to push Tilian further. Again, without thinking too hard about it, he pressed harder onto the other man’s wrists. His heart was racing; he felt Tilian’s pulse through his wrists, equally frantic in pace.

“You _like_ me, don’t you? That’s fucked up, man.”

Tilian let out a quiet groan, again trying, in desperation, to free himself. Tears started to flow, heavy and hot, down his cheeks. With his shaking legs, he’d slid inches down the wall, now nearly level with Jon.

Jon knew the pressure on his wrists must’ve hurt like hell. If nothing else, Jon could throw his weight around. Why didn’t Tilian say anything?

It’s not like Jon minded, having Tilian fall to pieces in front of him like this, the other man’s ego collapsing suddenly like a sand castle. It was cathartic, after the argument from earlier. And maybe something else, too.

“How long?” Jon let out with a laugh. “Have you been crushing on me for years? Why freak out now?”

“S, stop,” Tilian said, barely above a whisper, sniffling. Tears flowed down his neck, soaking the front of his shirt.

“You’re so fucked up,” another laugh. “That’s fucking gross.”

_Is that really it?_

Tilian whimpered softly, his eyes, blinded with tears, darting down for a moment, then away, his legs shifting uncomfortably. Jon glanced down, seeing the undeniable shape of Tilian’s semi-hard cock in his jeans. Jon’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You’re getting off to this?” Jon scoffed. “You’re even more fucked in the head than I thought.”

Another quiet whimper escaped Tilian’s mouth, his legs continuing to shake. Jon couldn’t keep his eyes off Tilian’s fevered movements.

Tilian took in a breath. “S, stop, please,” he whispered, barely audible. He sniffled back a quiet sob. “What do, do you want out of m, me?”

Jon wasn’t too sure, himself. Tilian continued.

“If you just, just wanted to call me a fucking freak, then, then do it,” he mumbled. “This is just,” a sniff, “just torture, you fucking _asshole_.” The last word seemed to jump out of him a little louder than he expected, causing him to recoil, squeezing his eyes shut.

Jon felt his mouth speak his immediate thought before his brain could catch up and stop it.

“You really like me that bad, right? You’d let me do anything to you, huh?”

Tilian, his eyes widened in his shock at the statement, nodded. He breathed in sharply, another sob catching in his throat, meeting Jon’s eyes for the first time in a while. He shakily pressed his hips up towards Jon out of desperation, just barely out of reach of the other man.

“Please, please, just,” Tilian stammered, tears still flowing freely, “touch me, I don’t care, I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?” Jon’s smile returned.

“An, anything,” the other man could barely form the words, babbling, his hips bucking, seemingly out of his control.

Jon brought his face close to Tilian’s, the latter man’s breath hot and heavy, stuttering in his chest through his sobs. “Will you do whatever I say?”

“Y, yes,” Tilian mewled, without hesitation. The aggression from earlier had totally left Tilian’s eyes, being now pleading, and soft, heavy-lidded. Jon found himself staring at Tilian’s lips, red and glistening enticingly from the tears. Tilian nodded. He swallowed, lowering his pitch. “Whatever.”

_Okay, fuck it._

Jon pressed himself to Tilian’s lips, feeling their warmth, slick and salty with tears. Tilian moaned into the kiss, reveling in the contact. Jon pushed himself closer to the other man. Tilian brought his hips to Jon’s, grinding against him, his cock fully hard in his jeans. Jon could feel himself stiffen almost immediately, desire overcoming any other thought. Jon released Tilian’s arms, resting his hands on the sides of Tilian’s face, pushing his tongue into the latter’s mouth, Tilian still shaking from soft sobs. His face felt warm, and wet, and Jon couldn’t help but push into him, taking advantage of his vulnerability, nibbling at the other man’s lips. Tilian gasped desperately between kisses, grabbing hard at Jon’s curls, pulling him closer and closer. Jon then moved his hands to Tilian’s shoulders, separating from the other man (eliciting a soft whine, and a little-too-hard grab at Jon’s arm), pushing him to the ground.

Tilian gave some resistance, before realizing the promise he’d just made, dropping hard to his knees. He gazed up at Jon, his half-lidded eyes overwhelmed with need, before groping hungrily at Jon’s cock through his joggers. Jon gripped tight to Tilian’s hair, pulling him close, shoving his face roughly against his covered cock. Tilian pressed his cheek to Jon’s dick, stroking it through his pants, gazing up at the other man in adoration. Jon breathed heavily, bucking lightly at the contact. Tilian then pulled the waist of Jon’s pants down roughly, grabbing his already-slick cock in his hand, the skin-to-skin causing Jon to shiver, stroking momentarily before taking it eagerly into his mouth. Jon felt overwhelmed at the feeling of Tilian’s warm, soft mouth around the tip of his cock, his tongue tracing slow circles around the head, before taking more of it in.

Tilian had been rubbing himself through his pants; he unzipped them, hips twitching upwards, an obvious wet spot forming on his briefs. He reached down to pull his own cock out, and Jon—again, without thinking very hard about it—pushed Tilian’s hands away from his crotch with his shoe. Tilian looked up at him in confusion, hands held up in hesitation.

“You can’t touch yourself,” Jon breathed, smirking. “Only when I say you can. You’ll do whatever I say, remember?”

Tilian blinked slowly, and let out an exhale through his nose, shakily laying his hands down in his own lap. His cock, needy and hard, leaked pre into his briefs, creating a warm, sticky mess.

Jon began to thrust hard into Tilian’s mouth, pulling him by his hair, another hand to the back of his head. Tilian let out a whimper of surprise, screwing his eyes shut tight; he held his fists balled up on his thighs, fingernails digging hard into his palms. Tears began to flow again, him being so overwhelmed, mixing with drool dripping down his chin. Tilian looked pathetic, and gross, and yet, agonizingly, still needy, taking up all of Jon’s cock lovingly, with a desperation like if he didn’t, he would die, and Jon wanted nothing more than to facefuck him, to use him, make him feel like a toy—a _pet_.

Jon decided it was Tilian’s just deserts, for being so cruel. He could get used to this.

Jon picked up his pace, getting closer. Tilian worked his tongue around Jon’s cock in the brief moments of slower movements, desperate to show how badly he wanted to please Jon. His cock ached, but he wanted to be good, and do what Jon said, so he kept his hands down, pressed painfully into his thighs. Jon was impressed at Tilian’s restraint.

“Good,” he mumbled, “you’re being very good.”

Tilian shivered at the praise, clearly elated to have Jon notice how good and well-behaved he was being. He moaned, seemingly out of his control, pulling Jon to the edge; without another word, Jon pushed Tilian deep onto his cock, coming into the back of his throat. Tilian, though surprised, held his breath, intent to not choke.

“Hey,” Jon muttered, softly, “swallow.”

He released Tilian’s hair, keeping a hand gently held on the other man’s head as he slowly pulled back, cum dripping down Jon’s cock and from Tilian’s lips. Tilian, doing as he was told, swallowed, licking Jon’s cock clean in slow, deliberate movements. He wiped his chin with his hand, licking that up, as well. He sat back, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked up at Jon, glancing down at his own cock for a brief moment.

“Please,” Tilian’s voice shook, breathing hard, “touch me, like you promised.”

“I didn’t promise anything,” Jon replied casually, brushing sweaty bangs away from his forehead. He zipped himself back up. Tilian looked like he was going to start crying, again, at that. Jon smirked at him.

“But—”

Jon placed his foot gently against Tilian’s covered cock, silencing the latter man.

“_But_,” Jon continued, “you deserve a treat, don’t you? For being so good.”

Tilian bit his lip, eyes pleading. He nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact. His hands drifted towards his cock again, before pulling away. He was going to be good.

Jon pressed against Tilian’s cock, gently rubbing against it through his briefs. Tilian let out small gasps and moans, eyelids fluttering at the sensation. He gripped the neck of his shirt, holding it over his mouth in an attempt to cover up his overwhelmed noises.

“This,” Jon started, eyeing Tilian’s cute, reddened face intently, “is what you deserve. You’ll get more when you start acting better. Got it?” Jon pressed down harder.

The tears had returned. Tilian nodded, whimpering and begging and looking up at Jon like he was the only thing that mattered, at least in the moment, his body tremoring with suppressed sobs. Tilian pressed his hips up against Jon, grinding against him impatiently, desperate to come for Jon. His breathing got quicker, and lighter, and all he could say were whispers of Jon’s name, over and over again, until he finally came, a wracking, pained orgasm that left him speechless, and weak, and shaking all over the floor.

Jon hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath, and let it out. He kept his eyes on Tilian, who was now curled in on himself. Tilian kept his eyes shut as his breathing slowed back down.

Jon’s mind was starting to process all that he had done. His hand slowly drifted up to cover his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, muffled underneath his palm. “Fuck, fuck.”

Tilian smiled up at him, blearily.

“Was I good?”

Jon peered at Tilian, blankly. He nodded.

“Yeah—yeah, you were.”

Tilian let out a short hum.

“Can you help me up?”

Jon nodded again, suddenly fully aware of their surroundings. They needed to leave.

He kept his gaze on Tilian, on the soft red remaining in his cheeks, on how small he looked, all bundled up on the ground as he was. Jon only had one thought on his mind.

_All mine._

Tilian looked up expectantly, patiently awaiting assistance. Jon blinked.

“Yeah, uh. Yeah, I can,” he mumbled, before stepping closer, and helping the latter man to his feet.


End file.
